Every page was part of the story.
Every sentence, every word.
Crafted over decades.
Like a book
They treated people the same.
Instead of reading all the pages, the good and the bad.
All they wanted to do was skim, flick through the pages to the good bits
Ignorant of the true story.
how the journey took them there.
Just looking for the happy ending.
Then after reaching the end of the page and realising that the story wasn't complete, they decided the book wasn't for them.
They may read a little more.
Come back and finger the pages for fun, but
it was only a few pages that made them feel good.
Finally they put the book down, tossed it aside and picked up a glossy magazine.
The kind that is relevant for two weeks then back to the recycle bin.
No substance all pictures, sensation and glitz.
In a couple of weeks a new copy to finger through.
So are you a book or a magazine.
Is there a story or a few extracts.
Are you a reader or do you flick through books and never read.
You see one day you have to pick up a book with your name upon it.
Will reading it be hard?
Will you simply flick through it unable to face your own story.

It's ok to be alone

What lies beneath her painted smile, showing roots and sticky lashes.
A plot to steal your sanity in heels and spandex *******.
She's dressed to **** like a huntress.
She didn't bring a gun
When she takes the shot no sound is heard
Just the whimper of desire

Wrapped in cellophane as though preserved waiting to once again be opened.
He washed the sheets today, a month on.
Her scent now gone but He can still smell her.
He never wanted to feel again. He didn't have the capacity.
An Ill defined future.
Nothing inside
But she lit up the room.
Like an arsonist with no thought as to what or who she burned.
It was like getting excited opening a tin of beans and craving them on toast, and finding half of it is liquid.
That said, she could never be a woman that only ate lettuce.
Her body was the incarnation of curvature.
Its sweeping form more beautiful than anything he had known or imagined, and yet fleeting.
For she was a muse.
Fleeting.
Lost.
Passing through.

Drains
Fountains
Puddles

What if one day you realise you have felt every emotion you think you can ever feel?
High low
Love loss
Pain fear
Joy sorrow
Then
Emptiness
When that day comes
What next?

Never assume
You may be unhappy in your relationship.
It doesn't mean others are in theirs.
Don't sow the seed of doubt in another's garden.
How others choose to love and live may not be the same as you.
They have no less a right to live and love than you so long as no one is hurt.